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lose him.‖ Roxburghe reached around her and dropped a bag weighted with coins onto the table. ―Tell Friar Tucker this gold is for the abbey‘s trouble.‖

    Rose was speechless.

    ―And you, m‘lady.‖ He tipped her chin with his cupped hand and traced her bottom lip with his thumb. ―Stay away from men in dark corridors and dining halls. Unless you want someone to show you the not-so-proper way to eat on this table.‖

    Indignation surged through her, instantly dissipating any feelings of gratitude she had momentarily felt for his generosity. But before she realized she had no idea what he had just said, except to imply by his tone it must be carnal and therefore not fit for a lady, he grinned and strode from the room, his spurs jingling against the stone floor. The sound followed him into the courtyard and left her prey to unproductive emotions, not the least of which was awareness of him as a man.

    She traced a fingertip where his had caressed her sensitive bottom lip, and, even as she wondered how many women he had kissed to know just where to imprint his touch, she wondered more what it would have been like if he had put his mouth on hers instead.

    You are a naive girl, Rose Lancaster .

    A man like him would not have stopped with a kiss.

    A n hour later, Rose gave up working in the crypt and put away her books. She went upstairs to her room and changed into a woolen gown. After she dressed, she drew back the faded velvet curtains to let in the dreary, mist-soaked light of dawn and turned.

    Her old box bed sat against the wall, the covers thrown over the mattress as if an effort had been made to leave the room as it had been found. The room was no bigger than a large closet but Rose loved the coziness, especially in winter. She had repaired cracks in the wall and along the window frame with plaster and painted the walls the color of sunshine. Though the color came out more like a toasted orange or an over-ripened pumpkin, Friar Tucker had smiled and told her he‘d never seen such a unique shade. So she had kept the color.

    Unique sounded nice, not ordinary . or common. Lord Roxburghe had told her she wasn‘t common.

    Like her unique height and the color of her russet hair, once compared to the copper of a fresh-minted coin. At one time, she would have plucked every red strand from her head if someone could have assured her that her hair would come back blond. She had grown into her body and had come to accept her uniqueness as one accepted an incurable ailment, with as much dignity as she could muster. But this morning, her uniqueness made her feel pretty.

    She walked outside into the mist-shrouded courtyard still wet with rain and humidity. A brief lull in the clouds opened a patch of pearl-gray sky to her gaze, but the sky would not remain clear for long. She stepped through the gate.

    Jack was already in the stable, diligently bent over a rake, mucking the stalls. With Friar Tucker gone, he had only the abbey‘s two horses and now the stallion to tend.

    A fine regal horse Loki was, too, of stellar bloodstock, with long legs, a full chest and glossy red coat. She leaned against the stall and made a visual inspection of the horse. He favored his right foreleg. She would make a special liniment with herbs grown from the abbey‘s own hothouse.

    The stallion bumped her arm, seeking a pet, and she moved nearer. To assess a horse‘s personality one must look it in the eyes. Character and temperament were easy to read. Piggy little eyes were sure signs of an untrustworthy beast. Bold but kindly eyes, well proportioned, indicated a good temperament. ―No fire-breathing beast are you, Sir Loki,‖ she said, raking her fingers gently through the horse‘s mane. ―You are a handsome devil,‖ she said. ―Like your master.‖

    Chapter 3

    T he storm that had come with the unusual heat of summer rampaged for another day before easing into the steadier, slower rain that filled the rivers and streams and